Loxar IV- Equum Militiæ
by Jew-boii-887
Summary: into the Battle of Loxar IV the Attillan Imperial Guard cavalry regiments under Morgul Kamir have gained mile after bloody mile from the awakened Necron Forces of the Tomb World beneath their feet. Although things are not all as they seem inside the Imperial camp. Continued pressure form the Mechanicus to liberate their Forge World, and murmurs that Kamir is not suited to command.
1. Section the First: Arrival

Space, the cold vacuum of the void. This is what humanity must cross to travel between the stars. Mighty battle fleets soar the heavens above worlds in the mighty Imperium of Man, bringing death to the unclean abominations that make up the ranks of the enemies of man. It is aboard one of these mighty ships that this tale begins, the proud and haughty "_Ignis Sabbatine_" a massive bulk troop transporter loaded for bear with the proud fighting men of the Attillan 58th Cavalry Regiment the "Brazen Spearheads". Their destination? Loxar IV a mighty forge world of the Omnisiah's own Adeptus Mechanicus. Currently under siege by the Loxar IV Necrons, ancient soulless machines bent on annihilation of all life in the galaxy. So far for two and a half years before the Attillan 58th departed Attilla after their founding, Loxar IV teetered on a knife edge of defeat. Finally with the arrival of the Imperial Guard the Necrons were pushed from the forge cities and out into the inhospitable deserts of the pollution killed world. The Attillan 58th arrived barley a few weeks before the third year began. Already Attillan regiments of previous founding's were already present conducting hit and run raids against the Necron forces massing in the desert.

The "_Ignis Sabbatine_" dropped through the atmosphere of Loxar IV like a stone, atmospheric friction making huge torrents of flame, like one mighty mile long bonfire, streaked along and across "_Ignis_ _Sabbatine's_" wide girth.  
"All stations, all stations, this is the captain, landing in T-minus eight minutes" remarked the wall Vox, Changhati shuddered, he hated flight, space flight and warp travel. In his not so humble opinion Changhati believed that man was never to leave the confines of his home world and keep is feet firmly planted on solid earth his entire life. Most of all he hated the drop, the shaking the rattling the constant scream of the engines driving them like a knife into the belly of the sky. He sorely wished he could be with his horse, his boy. the infernal drop and the shaking and groaning of metal would have terrified Abdullah, the finest horse in his entire clan, possibly the finest horse on all of Attilla, and he wished sorely that he could be with the beast in the makeshift stable, a realm of terrified animals and dim lighting.  
"Landing... NOW" crackled the wall vox, and almost immediately followed by the thrusting roar of the hull burners, firing to bring their vaulting run to a halt and prevent them being spread across the landing field like Ikaar sauce across a Grox burger.  
With a thump and the hiss of hydraulics, they landed and the port side doors opened to stairs sliding out of the vessels superstructure. Steam from the re-entry heat billowing off the vessels thick Adimantuim skin. He grabbed his kit from the roof hatches and moved down the stairs to where his squad was assembling. He blinked in the startlingly bright light of Loxar IV's sun, and slipped on his glare shades.

"So! Decided to take your time 'eh cousin?" Remarked Sergeant Ghaanbatar, his straw blonde hair tied back into a flowing ponytail. His hard, laughing green eyes locked with the impassive mirrors over Changhati's own green eyes. They weren't cousin's not in the traditional sense, it is a commonly held belief among Attillans that the four main eyes colours of the Attillan peoples, Green, Blue, Brown and yellow were derivative from the first four peoples that settled Attilla long before the Great Crusade." Still carrying around that dinky old spear?" remarked Erdun snidely. Changhati tensed his robotic fist.

Erdun, Son of the planetary Governor of Attilla was in all respects of the word, an Arsehole. He had run away at nineteen to join the Imperial Guard and be free from his father's controlling ways, but also expected his former high status to get him a rank within the Rough Riders, It didn't. Such was not the way of the Attillan regiments, for in the Emperors Imperial Guard or at least The Attillan Imperial Guard, experience and ability triumphed over birth and lineage. He was tall and lanky with black straight hair parted over his left eye, and high cheekbones that showed his noble birth. He had a poorly grown immature moustache and a silver eyebrow stud that made him look like some kind of Ganger. He had a soured air of faux authority that he wore like a coat, albeit that only he could see it.

"Shove off you Khanasan shitface" remarked Bataar, his heavily built frame appearing out of the "_Ignis_ _Sabbatine's_" shadow, a lit Iho stick in his mouth. His shaven skull glinted in the sunlight and his cold brown eyes stared provokingly out from under his thick black eyebrows, his nose wrinkled above his oriental moustache. His left hand, an augmentic replica of his original, patted his plasma gun.  
"Oh? You want to go woodsman?!" remarked Erdun, mocking Bataar's past life as a lumberjack. Bataar failed to rise to the bait, as an Attillan it was prideful to live the nomad life of the tribes, to see their vast planet from the saddle of a horse. Bataar's clan had settled down in a forest and sold lumber to passing clans and forging weapons for the highest bidder. Erdun meanwhile had lived a life of luxury. Living in the only permanent city on Attilla, Khanasan, as the Governor's son. He wasn't the kind who could make fun of Bataar for his stationary lifestyle, but did so anyway, an Arsehole and a hypocrite.

"Would you two shut the Fegg up?" remarked the quiet voice of Scout Trooper Turgen, his eye's scanning the unfamiliar surface of the uphive landing platform.  
"I couldn't have heard a mob of Fegging Orks approach with you two Fegging about" he continued his voice still in its quiet monotone. Scout Trooper Turgen was one of the rare few Attillans who inhabited the edge of habitable space on Attilla, were the great Steppe Wyrms of the inland plains hunted for lost Ovigors and the occasional horse. To live among such monsters would have been incredibly deadly and it showed the little man's skill as a scout that he was still alive. His skin was a dark tan and his white blonde hair covered his yellow eyes, seen by some systems of imperial law as mutatius abominatus. His small Cadian laspistol holstered in a quick draw leather pocket.

There was a thump of flesh colliding with metal and an curse along the lines of "Fegging Feg bolt, Feg me to Fegging Terra" as trooper Jochi pulled himself up from the exposed bolt he had just tripped over his rucksack spilling his personal effects across the landing pad. Changhati passed him his copy of the Imperial Infantryman's Uplifting Primer that had slid over by his boot. "Thanks 'Chang" remarked Jochi. Trooper Jochi was the youngest man in the entire squad, at eighteen years standard. His face still clean shaven and acne scarred from his youth, his brown hair messy and tangled as with all youths and his bright blue eyes that were always exited. In fact Jochi was the youngest Trooper in the regiment having turned 18 on the voyage to Loxar IV, his squad mates and father having toasted to his health with cups of Ovigor blood, the drink of true Attillan warriors. Jochi's father jogged past from the further down the massive landing pad. "MEN! MOVE OUT! FETCH YOUR HORSES!" yelled Colonel Chenghiz, Jochi's father.

Changhati walked up to where the Horses of Squad Ghaanbatar were kept and found his boy, Abdullah, the best horse on Attilla. Abdullah's pelt was ash white with grey speckles towards his rear, at some point in the past his left eye had been crippled and had been replaced with a mechanical implant. Like most of Changhati's left arm and left leg. He felt a strange comradeship with this horse, given to him by his father just before he left to join the guard. Abdullah snorted and stared at him as he closed, its good eye staring at him like a sniper rifle, direct and on target. It was like the horse knew they were going somewhere horses weren't supposed to exist.  
"Hey boy, I brought you this" remarked Changhati and pulled a packet of freeze dried hay, the last hay the horse would see until they arrived at the Attillan encampment.

He undid the grav inhibitor straps that had kept the horse still since their departure from Attilla. Abdullah shook himself, stretched his legs and shook his head. Changhati pulled his ornate saddle from the storage unit in the stall and fitted it to Abdullah's back. He then pulled the leather strap with three holes for his soon to be issued Hunting Lances and then another strap for his family's weapon _"The Fury of Chakara"_a mighty lance two point five meters long with a pure silver head.  
Abdullah trotted of the treadmill floor of the stall, the treadmills had been used to keep the horses fit during the long zero G trip.

Changhati stepped up the sty-rip and mounted the saddle and trotted out the forward landing ramp. Abdullah shook his head and snorted in the harsh sunlight. He was the biggest Stallion in the regiment and most other horses shrunk away from the great beast. Changhati trotted up to where his squad was forming up, Sergeant Ghaanbatar made the sign of the aquilla as he approached.

"All set Corporal?" asked the Sergeant. As he said this a regimental armorer stopped by each man in turn handing them their Lances and close combat weapons.  
"Yes sir!" boomed Corporal Changhati, grabbing his three Hunting Lances and chainsword from the armorer, a second armourer came up and handed him _"The Fury of Chakara"_its silver head shining bright in the midday sun. The little man passed Ghanbataar his ritual dagger, a small iron dagger with several rubies gilt upon the grip.  
"Squad, check weapon safeties" spoke the Sergeant, looking off down the ramp that lead into the city streets.  
"SQUAD! CHECK WEAPONS!" barked Changhati echoing his Sergeant. Changhati looked down at his bolt pistol, all chrome workings and maat black plastek furnishings. He checked it was set to safe, and holstered it again. He checked all the heads on his Lances were secure and they were safe as well then gave Abdullah a rub behind the ears. He slid the chainsword into its sheath on the side of his saddle, and took a sip of tepid water from his flask.  
He looked to his right and saw Colonel Chenghiz riding in front of his command team the great horse banner of Attilla flying high behind him.  
"MEN OF ATTILLA!" he roared, his fur trimmed bowl helmet hanging from his belt, one of his Hunting Lances held in a raised fist. "THE EMPEROR HIMSELF CALLS YOU! WHAT IS YOUR ANSWER?!" he roared again, his scarlet cape flowing out behind him. The Regiment cheered, the horses whinnied, one thousand voices raised to the glory of the Emperor of Man. "CHARGE! CHARGE MY SONS! CHARGE TO THE GOLDEN THRONE! CHARGE INTO HISTORY!" he screamed, his black horse reared onto it hind legs and he pointed his Lance down the causeway that lead to the Imperial Guard's camp "GLORY IN VICTORY!" he started. "VICTORY IN DEATH!" finished the regiment their roar spooking the ship crew that had come outside to watch the spectacle. With the clatter of horse shoes against metal flooring the fighting 58th departed the landing pad and thundered towards their Attillan comrades from other regiments, ready to join the liberation of Loxar IV.


	2. Section the Second: Acclimatized

With the clatter of Hooves the 58th arrived at the Imperial Guard base. It was a pinnacle of pre-fab deployment, courtesy of the Adeptus Mechanicus. A huge glistening military base of plasteel. Slowly the 58th came to a halt, the hard pan desert floor outside the city limits throwing up billowing clouds of red dust. Before them stood the behomothic, imposing black Adimantium gates, crowned by Guard towers and weapon servitor point defence turrets. Colonel Chenghiz raised his fist that contained his ID ring, a small silver band with a small but powerful data pulse array. With a tortured scream of sand clogged hydraulics the gates rumbled open and the 58th cantered in. they were met not by fellow Attillans but by a command team of the 1st Polonski Winged Hussars, a Rough Rider regiment from another world like their own.

"Colonel Chenghiz? Remarked a clipped Slavic voice of nobility. "I'm Captain Gajos of the 1st Polonski Hussars". Captain Gajos was a small man, smaller than most of the Attillans present, a by-product of Attilla's high gravity. His head was covered by a full face helm, with a polished shine to it so it shone like a diamond in the sun. He wore the silver carapace plate of his regiment. Although being a senior officer he had a gold horse head in front of two crossed spears, and a chunky bolt pistol was tucked into his leg holster. A great iron eagle sat perched atop the standard of the Hussars, its flag showing a red and white circle that had divided down the middle with a black Aquila in the middle. The odd thing about them was, every one of them, too a man had great white wings attached to their backs. The Colonel tried to speak but was drowned out by the loud Captains barked commands. "HUSSARS! SHOW THESE ATTILLANS TO THEIR QUARTERS! QUICK, MARCH!" The Hussars trotted off with the Attillans in tow.  
"Well, so much for 'an entirely Attillan run' crusade" remarked Sergeant Ghaanbatar. Changhati grunted his agreement.

They cantered down the main dirt road of the encampment, a large thoroughfare easily wide enough to take some Leman Russ main battle tanks three abreast. The men of the 58th saw sons of Attilla going about their daily business. The air was caked with the smell of horses and the sounds of Soldiers at rest. Soft, lazy cracks of faraway lasfire drifted sleepily in from the firing ranges in the western edge of the camp. Laughter, loud conversations and the occasional sound of angry voices floated about the camp. Changhati heard snippets of conversation from the Colonel and the Hussar Captain, it seemed Chenghiz was animatedly relaying the exploits of his last hunting trip before he left Attilla. The Captain seemed to be listening intently, with a polite smile that just screamed, "Oh God Emperor I'm talking to a Barbarian".  
The Polonskian's nose was turned up as if there was a bad smell in the air. Which there was, it was seen as common procedure that Attillans never bathed, as it was it was seen as an insult to the spirits of water. All though this didn't stop the crew of the "_Ignis Sabbatine_" from spraying them down with huge clouds of Aerosol deodorant from the ships troop bay during their arrival and just before their departure.

Changhati looked to his left and saw an off duty Polonskian Sergeant playing a game of Regicide against an Attillan Lieutenant. The Polonskian carefully considered his next move and moved his Knight.  
"And that's check, thank you Sir for your…" started the Polonskian. Before he could finish the Attillan flipped the small ammo crate on its side spilling the Regicide pieces everywhere.  
"Orbital Bombardment, Check Mate". Finished the Lieutenant. "Barbarian" muttered the Polonskian, the Lieutenant overheard this and returned "Ah, that's Sir Barbarian to you". The Polonskian stormed off red-faced, leaving his regicide set behind. Changhati along with the rest of the 58th in the vicinity laughed. The Lieutenant took a little bow, flourished his helmet and retreated into his tent.

As the column moved further into the camp they passed the Skitarii's quarters, vermilion and gold armoured warriors stood to attention, slender chrome Hellguns in a parade rest position as Servitors trundled to and fro performing various duties. Behind them great tank garages sat the insides obscured in an inky black shadow. The occasional bright spots of welding were visible in the blackness, their stark white/ blue lights casting brief illumination across massive hull plates. Everywhere there where the Techpriests of the Adeptus Mechanicus, their vermilion robes trailing out behind them with the lower sections stained with the planets red dust.

"Colonel follow me if you please" said the Polonskian Captain "we need to get you briefed". The Captain rode his horse out of the way of the advancing column and dismounted. Chenghiz followed him. The command bunker was a veritable fortress, it had massive off white plasteel walls that curved into a domed roof. It was all a one piece pre-fab moulded building like most of the camp. A massive high yield vox array sat at the top like a crown on a king. Changhati turned towards the command bunker and saw one of the Techpriests looking his way, a massive red clothed giant with gold frogging around his massive red robes. A huge Cog-axe sat in the man's augmentic left hand and a set of blazing blue eyes, like twin welding flashes, looked out at him. It took a lot to frighten an Attillan but those eyes came close to frightening Changhati. With the hiss of small scale hydraulics the giant turned and followed the Colonel and Captain into the Command bunker.

The rest of the 58th followed the remaining Polonskians to the 58th's new barracks. It was a low squat building with enough room to fit the one thousand men of the 58th. With a similarly sized stable to accommodate all the horses. After the second officer of the regiment unlocked the main doors to the stable with Chenghiz's borrowed signet ring, the regiment surged inside. Inside the huge pre-fab barn servitors were filling troughs up with water from the base's aquifer, while other servitors sat nearby their hand implants replaced with large grasping claws ready to unload hay to feed the horses. Changhati walked Abdullah to the stable marked with his serial number, gave the horse a quick rub then took off the saddle and all the weapon holsters and hung them on purpose built hooks arrayed about the stall. He then walked out to where the squad was gathering, and took a knee.

"Right men" began Major Ganzorig, the regiments second officer "If you haven't noticed, this Fegging swillhole here is Loxar IV" continued the Major. "The Xenos that our brother regiments and 'The Most Glorious Polonski Hussars". Somehow, through his camaraderie with the men and his silver tongue he had made 'The Most Glorious Polonski Hussars' rhyme with 'Fegging Shitfaced Bastard's Cavalry', the men laughed. He continued " Have been fighting are the Necrons, Ancient machines that look like polished chrome skeletons" there were a few murmurs from around the room. The Major lit up an Iho Cigar, dirty smoke wafted from its end. "But don't worry boys, a Lance to the chest blows them all the way back to hell" he finished, a rumble of appreciative murmurs rippled through the room.

Suddenly from outside the barracks an alert siren started wailing.  
"TO YOUR STATIONS! MOUNT UP! FIRST, SECOND AND THIRD PLATOONS! WITH ME EVERYBODY ELSE RENDEZVOUS WITH THE MAIN FORCE!"  
Changhati formed up with the rest of the men of third platoon, his hunting lances ready. They rushed through the base to the massive gates, dry wind screaming through their hair.

"GLORY IN VICTORY!" yelled Major Ganzorig, "VICTORY IN DEATH!" the three platoons yelled as one. Changhati saw were the Necrons were massing, dipped his lance and prepared to charge.


	3. Section the Third: Victory in Death

They thundered across the desert like ghosts on the wind. Hair flapping about their ears and necks. Horses snorting with dust flying from their pounding hooves. Stooped low over their horses backs the men of 1st, 2nd and 3rd platoons raced ahead with the Major. Changhati's heart pounded in his ears and he let out a whoop of exhilaration, this was the true way of the Attillan. The Attillans had one hand on the reigns of their mounts, the other closed around the haft of one of their three hunting lances. Ahead of them they saw them, the Enemy.  
_Necrons_, Changhati couldn't even fathom the meaning of the word in his adrenaline addled brain, if unclean Xenos names could be fathomed. "DRAW YOUR LANCES!" roared the major pulling his first lance from its loop and raising it above his head to inspire the men. 'Like we need inspiring' thought Changhati.

He looked about him, Sergeant Ghaanbatar looked pumped, and his spear fixed forward like an arrow, his straw blonde hair flowing around him. Jochi looked exited and ready, Turgan was quiet as always, his lance dipped ready to take one of the abominations in the chest. Bataar had his plasma gun out and ready, goading his steed with his feet. Erdun had that superior smile on his face, he raised his spear and shouted the founding oath, the one they all took on the founding fields of Attilla, slowly the rest of the men followed.

"WE MEN OF ATTILLA! CHOOSE TO SERVE OUR LORD AND SAVIOR! THE GREAT EMPEROR OF TERRA! IN HIS FOREMOST FIGHING FORCE! THE IMPERIAL GUARD! IN OUR CAPACITY AS ROUGH RIDERS! TO HUNT DOWN THE FOE! WERE OTHERS CANNOT GO, WE SHALL! WERE OTHERS CANNOT FIGHT, WE FIGHT! AND WIN! WE DO THIS IN YOUR NAME AND FOR YOUR ESTATE OH MIGHTY GOD EMPEROR! AVE IMPERATOR!"

The cheer that followed was deafening, 'If these Necrons can feel fear, then they felt that' thought Changhati. The Necrons came into view, a long line in the sands, unflinching. One hundred warriors long and five deep the Necron line waited, with Imperial judgment boring down on them like a bolter round. Their silver body work glinting in the sun and their green eyes gleaming. By some unspoken signal they all took one step forward in unison. Their precision and singularity of purpose would have unnerved lesser men but the Attillans were made of sterner stuff. The thump of five hundred feet smacking into the hardpan was loud and almost eclipsed the pounding of Changhati's heart. As one the soulless machines raised their weapons, long glowing tubes with a backwards facing blade and fired. A ragged screaming noise split the air as the weapons discharged, flickering green lighting shot from the end of the barrels. Half a dozen riders fell, their steeds shot from under them. One slid head first through the sand. It would have been comical if not for the blood soaked trench he left in his wake. Bataar fired his howling plasma gun, sending bursts of Sun bright energy through the air. He screamed he litany of true striking as he pulled the trigger. One pulse smacked into the sand at a Necrons feet, instantly turning it into a pit of steaming glass. The rest of the pulses hit home. The Necron warrior was atomised, its broken body disappearing in a flash of green light. Bataar whooped for joy and fired again, another Warrior vanished, slain by Bataar's unerring aim. "CHAAAARGE!" screamed the Major, lowering his lance to head height. As one the column of Rough Riders formed up into V for Victory formation and lowered their lances, each weapon humming as the explosive heads were armed. Bataar slung his plasma gun and hefted a lance, its head humming live like all the others.  
"VICTORY IN DEATH!" they roared as one. Like a human and equestrian lightning bolt the Attillan Rough Riders hit the Necron line. The Necrons, ancient as they are, had never come up against cavalry when their programming was written and so their battle programming has no concept of the square formation as most armies do. They simply do not have the tactical flexibility to repel war mounts. The unprepared Necron ranks split asunder with the force of the Attillan cavalry, their bodies knocked from their feet by the tremendous impact. To Changhati what took ten seconds seemed like ten hours. He saw individual grains of sand fly past his face, he saw the Necron looming before him and raised his lance to its head. He saw the spear tip smash through its face and the flash as he pressed the detonator in the grip. The Necrons head and upper torso flew apart from the blast. It sagged to its knees then disappeared in emerald brilliance. He let go of his ruined lance, letting it drop to the desert floor. The momentum of the charge carried them through the Necron ranks, and off into the space behind. They wheeled about in a tight circle. Their second lances were drawn, armed and ready. "Charge!" yelled Sergeant Ghaanbatar, and they surged forward again. The lighting guns crackled again and more men fell, the remaining Necrons only managed to hit seven Attillans as the dust from the first charge obscured the galloping horses. The second charge struck, like spectres of death, like the anvil blow of angry gods. Changhati's lance plowed into the Necrons sternum and the resulting blast split the abomination in Two. More Necrons were blown apart and those knocked to the ground were struggling to get up. By now whatever controlled this Necron War Cell realised that they had taken unsustainable casualties and the remaining Necrons began to phase out in emerald sparks by ranks. The Third charge smashed through the last rank before it phased out bringing several chromed skeletons down to earth before they disappeared.  
"VICTORY! VICTORY! GLORY TO THE EMPEROR!" roared the Majors command squad. The horse banner of Attilla flying in the desert wind. The men stopped, looked about them and dismounted, broken lances were collected. Holes dug for men and horses were filled, first with bodies then with sand. Broken lances were placed at the head of each grave, the deceased's dog tags hanging from the detonator grip. All in all thirteen dead out of seventy five. Thirteen, the price the 58th payed for its first combat action on Loxar IV. The price was not fully paid.

There was a swirl of dust to Changhati's left. With horror he realised the fight was not done. there was a small rise of sand rapidly moving closer to them.  
"MOUNT UP! QUICKLY!" screamed Changhati. everywere men ran to their horses. Changhati quickly jumped into Abdullah's saddle and drew his chainsword. everywhere men drew their assortment of secondary weapons, Lasguns and Autopistols aplenty. with a mettalic scream of fury the first Wraith burst from the sand, its killing claws extended. It was huge, easily two times the length of a fully matured Attillan horse. it had the upper torso of a Necron warrior but instead of hands its wrists terminated in three huge sickle claws, so sharp they were cutting the air. instead of legs it had a huge snake like body attached at the hips, capable of propelling it like incredible speed. it flew at the nearest Guardsman and impaled him through the chest, crimson blood staining its silver bodywork. the unfortunate Guardsman let out a inhuman screech of pain, his eyes starting to roll back into his head. the forward momentum carried the Wraith and the man off the horse and back under the shifting sand, his cry of pain cut off short; drowned out by the sand filling his lungs. the second Wraith burst out of the sand in front of Jochi. the young Guardsman ducked and the shrieking monster passed over him, its claws missing him by millimeters. the Third Wraith burst out of the sand and flew at Changhati. Changhati ducked its grasping claws and brought his chainsword up. the Wraith tried to turn its head and avoid the blow that was coming but its considerable forward momentum prevented it. all it did was give Changhati a clear shot at its neck. The spinning steel blades of the chainsword met the Necrodermis skin of the Wraith and sun bright sparks flew from the blade. the Wraiths attack cry became one of anguish. Changhati cut a hands span into the monsters neck before the forward momentum wrenched the blade from his and the damaged Wraith plunged into the sand below. "STAND READY!" yelled the Major. another Wraith bust from the sand and abducted another Guardsman in a shower of gore. Changhati leaned perilously off his saddle and retrieved his Chainsword from the sand. "Major!" yelled Sergeant Ghaanbatar "we need to get out of here!" the major nodded. he raised his hand and circled his fist, the symbol for retreat. as one the remaining Cavalrymen bolted for the security of the base. the vox chimed. "Commander of Cavalry group, this is the "_Loxar __Chieftain" _do you require assistance?". Ghaanbatar looked stunned, after all this time they only thought to help us now? his facial expression screamed.

" This is Major Ganzorig of the Attillan 58th Rough Rider Regiment, " _Loxar __Chieftain_ " your help is greatly appreciated". in front of them there was a huge column of dust . "Make a hole! bellowed the Major, and the three platoons split to allow the dust cloud to pass. suddenly the wind changed direction and a monster emerged from the cloud, like a beast from a child's nightmare. Its dull grey hull was Imperial; but it was like no vehicle that Changhati had seen before. it was a hulking beast, a super heavy tank in its own right. the " _Loxar __Chieftain_ " burst through a sand bank, sand streaming of its hull like an ocean going battleship of Terran antiquity. It was a huge Super Russ, the Loxar pattern Leman Russ command tank. Its main armament was a hulking vanquisher cannon, with a coaxial heavy bolter for range finding, its other armaments were just as terrifying. its forward mount had a twin-linked Lascannon and its extra wide side sponson's had twin auto cannons, their thick barrels were as straight and terrifying as any dipped lance. the top hatched popped and a servitor rose to crew the pintle mounted, double barreled heavy stubber. with the throaty roar of Cannon the main gun fired. a wraith exploded with the force of a supernova as a super dense kinetic penetrater round burst through its chest. with a Thuk Thuk Thuk noise the flank mounted Autocannons opened up, shredding another Wraith. As the Tank destroyed the remaining Wraiths Changhati relaxed. there was a burst of displaced sand and the sound of shredding air. Changhati turned and came face to face with the metallic corpse grin of the Necron Wraith. Its scarring of its neck where the Chainsword had bit in gleamed as only cut metal can. Its glowing Emerald eyes glowed with a cold lifeless fury. Changhati grabbed the only weapon at hand, "_The Fury of Chakara_". He thrust it into the Necron's chest. It let out an agonized scream as the pure silver head touched it, Steam rising from the cut it left. The Wraith fell back and reared up on its tail chasing Changhati. It let out a wheeze that could have been mistaken for very crude Low Gothic, "Revenge". It reached for Changhati, the sickle claws cutting rips in his uniform. Changhati ducked the claws and felt the white light burn into his retinas. Three scarlet energy pulses whipped overhead, atomising the Wraith. Changhati looked in front of him and saw Bataar, twisted around with his plasma gun held out level despite his horse's motion.  
"You owe me one 'Chang" Remarked the bald plasma gunner. Changhati wasn't so happy to get back to base now. He owed Bataar a beer.


End file.
